28.11.08

It took me three days to write out the drum tab for the first song but I'm starting to get the hang of it. I'm one of those geeks that likes to have a map to follow when I'm tracking a song. Plus, I need to practice specific parts to get it up to tempo. My eyes are throbbing from all the pencil scratches on staff manuscript. Each day is one step closer to that final sound.

I used to enjoy a fanzine called Dishwasher-- a journal of a guy who drifted around the country working as a dishwasher. If I ever do a fanzine again it should also have interviews with people who aren't in the creative arts. The car washers, the parking lot attendants, the truck unloaders.

26.11.08

Some people like to drink cough syrup and hang out in hardware stores. Others shout the names of random electrical appliances during love making. I keep a vigilant watch for the extraordinary, the essence beneath the pedestrian.

24.11.08

The battery to my drill died today. I've been enjoying my work. Trying to get in the habit of keeping a video diary while I work on this record. Since I'm on my lonesome I figured it would be worthwhile someday in the future. I don't let many people inside.

23.11.08

A young Walt Disney suffered many losses when he was starting out. Each move, every ambitious attempt resulted in failure after failure. He finally spent his last nickel merging sound with animation on the first public appearance of Mickey Mouse, 'Steamboat Willie'. Despite even his most trusted friends and family's warnings, Walter sold his car and went into debt making the film. "Why should we let a few dollars jeopardize our chances," he wrote to his brother. "I think this is Old Man Opportunity rapping at our door. Let's not let the jingle of a few pennies drown out his knock."

22.11.08

Don't know what magnets were at play, but those wet horny toads came out of the woodwork last night. Went to see an Italian black metal band at a pool hall in Ohio. Pretty sweet! Metallica have sucked for 20 years, why do I still care?

21.11.08

Back in the day, me and my buddy Mike B. used to do a fanzine called DESPAIR. I started contributing in '84 but I think he'd been doing it for a year or so.

Got me to thinking about an idea I've never pursued. I've always wanted to turn Pink Hollers into an actual online fanzine with interviews, music equipment, live shows and record reviews, guitar and recording tips, alongside my usual nonsense.

19.11.08

Raymond Pettibon is 51 years old. I've been enjoying his art for over 20 years now-- jeez, I'm up there. SST and Forced Exposure were my only source for his art, but to this day it still makes me laugh out loud, or contemplate some moment of street drama.

16.11.08

I was early but I quickly met up with comrade Dan Koretzky from Drag City Records. He was wearing an Indian cloak tailored on Devon Street in Chicago. An old drunk woman kept calling him Rasputin.

We held court. We laughed loudly. We lamented the failing music business. I told him what I wished-- to buy one recording with instant access to all formats.

Before I knew it I was surrounded by the Beautiful People and they were all calling me hero. I didn't protest as I normally would because I needed it. I was raw from home. Too many split open heads at home. As stupid as it sounds, I needed their attention. It made me feel good.

The drinks did flow as did the night. We hit the Nashville honky tonks and the blue-eyed blondes and the dancing geeks. I wanted it all.

Retired in the wee hours, thinking about the betrothed. Painting a picture in my mindone color at a time, of what could have been.

It was nearly nine hours of driving, by myself. But I'm not complaining-- I was in a sexy black sports car, blasting metal on a warm sunny day.

My host was an amazing director and an old pal. His young wife was having contractions and was due any second. I threw a Febrized sweater over my Exmortus shirt and drove to the Hermitage Hotel for the reception.

11.11.08

Confidence is a pose, at least mine. It's one of many weapons used to ward off the dark winged creatures of self-loathing.

When I played at ATP in LA years ago I was accompanied by a cellist and violinist. It was the anniversary of a family member's passing so I made a dedication. I didn't care about being morbid, I've never fancied myself an entertainer.

It's always been about the moment, not some pre-meditated stage show.

It was a heavy, plodding set in a large seated theater. I wallowed in the dirge, I allowed myself to indulge in his honor. The strings improvised effortlessly around my simple chord progressions.

As I walked offstage Paz was there to give me a long hug. She said all the girls in the bathroom were clucking over me.

She says those things to make me smile.

I walked backstage looking for my guitar case. I was in some other time zone. It was a circus back there, all fake mustaches and tutus.

Someone shook my hand and told me they loved the set. I recognized him as Jeff Tweedy only because he'd just recorded with my pal Jim O' Rourke. I didn't know anything about Wilco and I still don't.

If I'm a poser it's because I act like I'm not terrified.

Over the years I have honed the act. There are imperceptible clues but who cares about a twitch of the eye? Or a long bathroom break? There is no part of me that likes all those lights on me, all those eyes on me.

I stand before you to scrutinize, not because I enjoy it but because someone wants to see me. I do it for them.

9.11.08

This is my second attempt to write today. The first was so long-winded and confessional that I didn't post it. It was about the items passing through my mind when I played at ATP in LA five years ago.

Maybe I'll post it later today, I'm not sure.

I love this feeling of anticipation as my studio starts to take shape. I have never had this much space to builda workspace-- it's beautiful. I have a playground, a conduit between my mind and the world's ears. This pathway is named:

GARGOT

You will hear my feelings forever. Or at least until the ocean submerges our doomed planet.

6.11.08

Work is slow but there are small satisfactions. Like anything overwhelming, you whittle at it daily. Imperceptible changes, tiny shavings, maybe none at all. Goals within goals within goals. The lights start flickering on, the fog descends, a mood thickens. Then, seething like a beast, you rise.

1.11.08

Events repeating over and over in your head. Events that destroy. All those good intentions colliding in a single moment. Cold metal against soft, perfect flesh. Blinding in an instant. Fluids red and salty, mixing with tears. You see it over and over